


Circling the Square

by thedeathchamber



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kid Fic, Pre-Canon, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeathchamber/pseuds/thedeathchamber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The truth is not always palatable, little brother. And the version of the truth one chooses to disclose,” Mycroft stared at Sherlock. “can make all the difference.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circling the Square

**Author's Note:**

> Season 3 only fuelled my fixation on big brother Mycroft, what with Sherlock insisting Mycroft stay and play games in tEH and asking him to come to the wedding in tSoT... you kind of get the impression that he's more of a source of comfort and support than either of them would care to admit. Or I like to think so, whatever.  
> This is the result.

  
_Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero._

  
       -Marc Brown

 

* * *

  
  
Mycroft set his slippers at the foot of the bed and crawled over the bedspread to Sherlock, who was covered up to his nose. He looked down at him for a moment with a tilt to his mouth, then blew into his face, ruffling the curls that fell over his forehead, making his nose twitch.

  
He groaned like a ghost next to Sherlock’s ear until he woke with a gasp. Mycroft tittered when Sherlock tried to hit him with flailing fists.

  
“The monsters are coming to get you, Sherlock.” he singsonged.

  
“There aren’t any monsters, Mycroft!" Sherlock retorted. "Mummy said so.”

  
“Then you won’t mind if I turn off the light.” Mycroft reached for the switch of the night lamp after getting under the covers.

  
Sherlock tensed next to him, pressing closer. “No.”

  
Mycroft shook his head and turned off the light. “Silly boy.”

  
He tried to dislodge Sherlock from him but he clung tighter to his arm, digging his knee and heel into Mycroft’s thigh. “Tell me a story, Mycroft.”

  
Mycroft thought for a moment. “There was once a little boy who liked nothing better than to bother his big brother.” he began. “Then one day a monster came in the night and gobbled him up, and the big brother was free his pestering at last. The end.”

  
Sherlock huffed. “That was a bad story.”

  
“Hm. I thought it was quite uplifting.” Mycroft tried once again to shake him off. “Now get to bed. Your own bed.”

  
Sherlock shook his head, his hair tickling Mycroft’s neck. “A monster will eat me.”

  
“If I walk you to your room, will you let me sleep?” Mycroft sighed.

  
“Why can’t I sleep here?”

  
“Because this is my bed.”

  
“Mummy says we should share.”

  
Mycroft grunted.

  
Sherlock pulled back to peer at him in the dark. He poked him in the nose. “Mycroft?”

  
“I thought you wanted to be a pirate. Sail the seven seas... there are a lot of sea monsters out there.” Mycroft pinched Sherlock’s nose.

  
“It’s not the same.” Sherlock argued. “I’d have a... _harpoon._ ”

  
“That’s for hunting whales.”

  
“Then it can kill the big monsters.”

  
“That is sound logic, I’ll admit.” Mycroft chuckled. He felt Sherlock’s grin against his shoulder. He sighed. “It’s very dark out at sea, you know. We could be in a raft in the middle of the ocean right now, it would be as dark.”

  
“What about the moon?” Sherlock asked.

  
“It’s a new moon. That means you can’t see the moon in the sky.” Mycroft clarified. “And all around is the water, as black as the night.”

  
“We’ll hear them coming.” Sherlock whispered.

  
“Not with the wind and the water. You’d never see it...” He pulled Sherlock’s ankle suddenly. “coming.”

  
Sherlock cried out then laughed, rolling half on top of Mycroft and burying his head against his chest.

  
“You’d eat all the monsters, Mycroft.”

  
Mycroft scoffed. “I would not.” He wrinkled his nose. “Raw fish and slimy shellfish. Blech.”

  
Sherlock shuddered.

  
“Exactly.”

  
Sherlock played with a button on Mycroft’s pyjamas. “We need Redbeard to protect us.”

  
“You’re right.” Mycroft yawned. “Maybe if we ask very nicely mum will let him sleep in your room.”  
  
                                                                                                               ~ ~ ~

  
“Sherlock, what is it?”

  
There was silence outside the library. Sherlock had been walking up and down the hall, shuffling when he reached the door, then moving on without going in.

  
Mycroft put down his pen and marked the page when the door opened. Sherlock dawdled in the doorway avoiding his brother’s gaze, an arm hugging his middle and the other resting on the door frame. He wasn’t wearing shoes but was still in his uniform, untucked shirt and mud-stained trousers.

  
“Let me see.”

  
Sherlock didn’t look up until Mycroft was in front of him. He had a burgeoning bruise on his cheek and a fresh graze on his chin. Mycroft tilted his head carefully to get a better look before Sherlock shook him off, hunching his shoulders.

  
“Did you clean the scrape?”

  
Sherlock nodded.

  
“Let’s get you some ice, hm?” Mycroft started off to the kitchen. Sherlock followed after him, then rushed to catch up and take his hand. Mycroft didn't comment. He pulled out some ice and wrapped it in a towel one-handed. Sherlock released his hand to hold the ice to his face, tucking feet that didn’t reach the floor under the chair. He opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking, several times.

  
“No one will be my friend.” Sherlock managed to choke out.

  
“Friends are overrated, little brother.” Mycroft replied. “They’re a liability.”

  
Sherlock frowned. “What does that mean?”

  
“It means that you don’t need them.” he said shortly. “Difference breeds hostility, Sherlock. You need to learn to put up with it.”

  
Sherlock’s cheek was red with cold when he lowered the ice-pack. “ _You_ have a lot of friends.”

  
The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted. “Not quite.”

  
He went on before Sherlock could ask him to explain further. “They’re... allies.” he said. “Building a network of information and protection can be useful.”

  
“How do you that?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his seat.

  
Mycroft stared at his brother’s wide-eyed pained expression. “In any case,” he said, standing up, putting a hand to Sherlock’s head. “You’ve got me.”

  
Sherlock blinked up at him, impatient when Mycroft led his hand with the ice back to his cheek. “What can _you_ do?”

  
Mycroft smiled. “Just tell me his name.”

  
                                                                                                               ~ ~ ~  
  
Mycroft ventured into the drizzle, the mud squelching beneath his shoes. He lowered himself onto a rock with a grimace; the dampness crept up through his trousers immediately.

  
“Sherlock.” He knocked on the kennel wall. “Sherlock. I know it’s very upsetting, but it’ll feel substantially less so inside, where it's dry and warm. Maybe with hot chocolate?”

  
There was sniffling from inside the kennel but no articulate answer.

  
“You’ll catch your death of a cold, as mummy would say.” Mycroft fingered a bit of moss with disgust, hesitated before wiping it on his coat.

  
“Good.” Sherlock responded, voice catching.

  
“Don’t be absurd.” He looked up at the overcast sky, took a breath. “Redbeard wouldn’t want that.”

  
“He was a dog. He wouldn’t understand the concept of death.” Sherlock snapped.

  
“True.” Mycroft admitted. “But he could tell when you were sad, couldn’t he?”

  
“He’d bring me something so we would play.” he said after a moment.

  
“One of my shoes, as a norm.”

  
Sherlock huffed in a mixture of laughter and sob. “Yes.” His voice shook. “Now you won’t have an excuse to get Mummy to buy you new ones.”

  
“We could always get another dog.”

  
The kennel shuddered with a blow from inside. “I don’t want another dog! I want Redbeard.”

  
“That’s impossible.”

  
“I know that!” Sherlock screeched.

  
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come now, Sherlock. He had a good life. His death is regrettable, but-”

  
“You wouldn’t understand!” Sherlock’s voice started out as a shout then got quieter. “You don’t love anyone.”

  
Mycroft’s hand dragged down his face, curled them against his mouth as he cupped his chin, resting heavily on his elbow. “I warned you not to get too attached.You were aware of the life expectancy of canines; this moment would have come sooner or later.”

  
Silence was his answer; even the crying had stopped.

  
“Sherlock, I understand you’re upset. I really do.” He got to his feet. “But you need to come inside now.”

  
After a moment he reached into the kennel and got a grip on Sherlock’s wrist.

  
“No! Let me go!” Sherlock resisted.

  
Mycroft didn’t give up his hold on his brother but stopped pulling. “It’s cold and wet, Sherlock. You can’t stay here.”

  
“What do you care?”

  
“Mummy’ll be angry if I leave you out here and you fall ill.” he said.

  
Sherlock bit him.

  
Mycroft let go of him, swearing.

  
“Sherlock, if you don’t get in the house right now I’ll take all your books away,” he frowned at the teeth marks on the back of his hand, rubbed the saliva off on his jacket. “and I won’t let you read the newspaper in three months. I mean it.”

  
Sherlock crawled out of the kennel with red-rimmed eyes and mouth set in a tight line, shoving past Mycroft.

  
“Don’t get into bed in those wet clothes.” Mycroft called after him as he went up the stairs, but he didn’t follow him up.

  
                                                                                                               ~ ~ ~  
  
“Breaking and entering. Very enterprising of you.” Mycroft leaned against the door frame of Sherlock’s room. “And at such a tender age too. We’re all _very_ proud.”

  
Sherlock didn’t look up from his book. “Just collecting data. There were certain samples of mold that I needed.”

  
“A worthwhile project, I’m sure.” Mycroft sneered. “Have you nothing better to do?”

  
“No. I’m bored.” Sherlock closed the book with a snap and threw himself back on the bed. “It’s all _terribly_ boring.”

  
Mycroft tutted. “Didn’t the wine help? It was rather good wine.”

  
Sherlock raised himself on his elbows to frown at Mycroft.

  
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow as he strolled into the room. “Interrupted dust pattern.” He ran two fingers over the top of the dresser. “You know how telling dust is.” He rubbed unexpected stickiness off his fingers with a handkerchief. “But understandable that you should overlook it, I suppose, given your probable state of intoxication at the time.”

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was still dull. Not quite what I had hoped for.”

  
“Things rarely are.” Mycroft said, folding his handkerchief back into his pocket.

  
“And how’s the secret service?” Sherlock asked, stretching.

  
“Secret.”

  
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Funny.”

  
Mycroft’s face stretched into a smile.

  
“Managed to patch things up with Rubenstein, did you?” Sherlock sat up on the bed to lean against the headboard, fingers interlaced on his chest.

  
“I made your excuses.” he replied.

  
“You told him I was a reprobate and a source of eternal shame to the family, didn’t you?”

  
“Absolutely.”

  
Sherlock snorted.

  
“I really don’t understand why you’re so offended by my career in politics.” Mycroft said, balancing on his heels as he stood in place.

  
“You offend me.”

  
Mycroft ignored the jibe. “If I desire a certain position it’s only in view of the good of the nation.”

  
“How very public spirited of you.”

  
“We have uncommon abilities,” Mycroft continued. “and it is our duty to ensure they do not go to waste.”

  
Sherlock stared at Mycroft with an expression of distaste. “I’m not going into politics.”

  
“No. I would think not.” He fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. “Not with your social graces.”

  
“It’s not my concern if people can’t handle the truth.”

  
“The truth is not always palatable, little brother. And the version of the truth one chooses to disclose,” Mycroft stared at Sherlock. “can make all the difference.”

  
“I won’t play your games, Mycroft.”

  
He shrugged. “You may learn the value of discretion with age. Experience does tend to change one’s perspective.”

  
“I thought ‘honesty is the best policy’?” Sherlock said with a slight curl of his lips.

  
“Save that sentimental drivel for Mummy.” Mycroft scoffed.

  
Sherlock’s laughter was no more than a shudder of his chest and shoulders. He picked up his book again as Mycroft made to leave.

  
“And Sherlock?” he said, halfway out the door. “Don’t do it again.”

  
“You mean don’t get caught.”

  
“If that’s a truth you don't care to reveal...” Mycroft trailed off as he closed the door behind him.  
  
                                                                                                             ~ ~ ~  
  
Mycroft stood by the window, as straight and immobile as a mannequin, in his tailored suit. His profile was cut out against the window, a square of gray speckled with water.

  
“I thought it would come to this.” He turned to face Sherlock at the rustle of crisp, hospital sheets. “A call at an indecent hour.” Mycroft kept to the deepening darkness at the corner of the room. “A barrage of medical personnel and their empty reassurances.”

  
“I wasn’t aware you’re abilities extended to the supernatural.” Sherlock said. His voice was hoarse and he tripped over the words.

  
“I’ve found there to be a certain degree of clairvoyance involved in omniscience,” Mycroft replied. “though I usually pictured this conversation taking place with you in a coffin.”

  
“You know I want to be cremated.” Sherlock murmured. “And you would never talk to my corpse. Your sentimentality is getting the worst of you, Mycroft.”

  
Mycroft inclined his head. “You’ll have to excuse me. These last couple of days have been rather trying.”

  
“A nurse told me you’ve been haunting the hospital hallways.”

  
“The dramatisation of the peasantry.” he retorted. “I’ve been around, of course. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing when I left.”

  
“King and country wait for no man.” Sherlock intoned.

  
“Queen, as it were.” Mycroft said, watching Sherlock as he struggled to raise himself up on the bed. “But I was about other business. I was interested to discover your... homeless network. Not exactly what I had in mind when I suggested you make connections, but I suppose they have their uses.”

  
Sherlock flashed a sharp grin. “I get the best deals.”

  
“Charming.” He drawled, watching Sherlock attempt to disentangle himself from the assortment of tubes and cables. He poured him some water and handed it to him without comment.

  
Sherlock peered at him as he sipped his water. The room was in gloom and the set of monitors cast only very dim light. “How does it come as a surprise? I thought you had me under surveillance.”

  
“Naturally.” Mycroft tapped two fingers on the bedside table. “Heads will roll.”

  
Sherlock handed him the empty cup and leaned his head back on the pillow. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

  
“I was ready to die alone, you know.” he said.

  
Mycroft drummed his fingers on the table before curling them into a loose fist. He kept his head turned away from Sherlock, chin to his chest. “I would rather you not die, if it can be avoided.”

  
“Hm, I gathered. If you weren’t above the law I could take you to court for violating my DNR order.”

  
Mycroft made a dismissive noise. “You were fond of saying there was a time and a place to die, do you remember?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“It was not the time, or the place.”

  
He glanced at Sherlock whose mouth tightened, a muscle in his jaw twitched. “That’s not for you to decide.”

  
Mycroft gave a humourless chuckle. “You called me, Sherlock.” His fist tightened. “My staff called me when you got to the hospital. But I called the ambulance, little brother.”

  
Sherlock glared at him, mouth trembling, before looking down, chest heaving. Mycroft hesitated, then put a hand on Sherlock’s forearm, careful not to upset the IV.

  
The light of the monitors seemed brighter as the last of the light outside faded. Mycroft slipped his hand back in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.

  
Sherlock held the handkerchief balled in one hand as he put back the oxygen prongs, while Mycroft poured him some more water.

  
“It was a misdial.” Sherlock said, holding the cup to his mouth with both hands.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand-alone but ties in with the Square Pegs and The Diagonal of the Square stories. 
> 
> I'm the younger sibling and my contact with children has been next to zero, so sorry, I don't know why I keep writing kid fic. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
